“You are not trying to impress him,” I told my reflection, which had the nerve to raise an eyebrow at me.
Kendra's text with Mitch’s address led me exactly where I expected: Richie Rich Boulevard, where the mailboxes cost more than my car and the houses had pretentious names like “Serenity Shores” despite being nowhere near water. Please. The only thing serene about this neighborhood was how quietly the money screamed.
Mitch’s place wasn’t just a house.
I white-knuckled my steering wheel for two full minutes while mentally rehearsing my exit strategies.
“You can do this,” I muttered. “You’re just here for free food and answers. Mostly answers. Okay, mostly food.”
I snatched up my $12.99 clearance-rack wine, because showing up empty-handed was for serial killers and heathens, and strutted toward the front door. It swung open before I could pretend to knock, revealing Marcus from the downtown location, whose highlights were still trying too hard.
“Angel!” He yanked me into a hug that nearly turned my discount Merlot into a chest tattoo. “The game’s starting and Mitch’s setup is ridiculous. We’re talking IMAX meets sports bar meets my dream game room.”
Game? Oh honey, the only game I came to play was called “Make Mitch Squirm.”
Inside was controlled chaos. At least twenty people filled the massive open-concept living room, scattered between two enormous sectional couches and a dozen chairs all angled toward a TV that was bigger than my bed. The screen showed football players in motion, and half the room erupted in cheers while the other half groaned.
I spotted Kendra by the kitchen island, frantically waving me over like I was a lifeboat and she was on the Titanic. The kitchen was what Food Network executives see when they climax—gleaming marble countertops, appliances that probably responded to voice commands in multiple languages, and an island so large it should have its own zip code.
“You made it!” She snatched my clearance-rack wine and tossed it among bottles that probably required a mortgage application. “Mitch is lurking somewhere, playing Lord of the Manor.”
“Speaking of things I’d like to put in my mouth—”
“Food’s over there.” She pointed to a spread that could feed a small army. Wings, sliders, a nacho bar with more toppings than my emotional baggage, and mac and cheese that definitely didn’t come from a blue box.
My stomach performed its audition for “Whale Sounds: The Musical. “Anxiety had cockblocked my appetite all day.
I was architecting the Taj Mahal of nachos when I felt someone materialize beside me.
“You came.” Mitch’s voice. Warm like expensive bourbon and just as likely to make me do something stupid.
I refused to look at him, suddenly fascinated by the artistic placement of each jalapeño. “Free food. Would’ve been stupid not to.”
“I was hoping it was more than that.”
Finally I turned, immediately regretting it. The man wore dark jeans, with a grey thermal that clung to his chest like it was getting paid overtime. His sleeves were pushed back to reveal forearms that had no business being that attractive.
“You were hoping I came to watch sweaty men chase each other around fake grass?” I stared incredulously at him. “Honey, that screen might as well be showing quantum physics.”
His mouth quirked. “Same. Basketball’s more my speed.”
“Then why throw the Football Olympics or whatever this is?”
“Seemed like a good excuse to get everyone together.” His dark eyes held mine. “To get you here.”
The crowd erupted into what I assumed was sports-induced orgasm. Someone had done something with the ball that apparently mattered.
“Come with me.” Mitch nodded toward French doors. “The patio is quieter.”
I should’ve said no. Should’ve stayed where witnesses could identify my body when my hormones finally murdered my common sense.
Instead, I grabbed my plate and followed him like my dignity was on backorder.
The patio was beautiful, all clean lines and ambient lighting, with a view of a backyard that seemed to go on forever. The noise from inside faded to a dull murmur as Mitch closed the doors behind us.
“Before you say anything,” he started, “I know I should’ve been upfront from the beginning.”
I shoved a nacho into my mouth, chewing with deliberate slowness. Let him squirm.
